MOTHER'S INTUITION

MOTHER'S INTUITION
Detective Marley Perry POV

The laminated college ID stares up at me from the evidence bag, its cheerful blue and gold border mocking the severity of the moment. Sarah Elizabeth Perry, Class of 2025, smiles back from the photograph—the same crooked grin that used to light up our kitchen table during weekend pancake breakfasts.

My hands don't shake as I hold the bag. Twenty-three years on the force taught me to compartmentalize, to separate Detective Perry from Mother Perry. But the wall between them crumbles as I stare at my daughter's face among the personal effects of Marcus Chen, another Ashford University student who disappeared without a trace.

"Where'd you find this?" I ask Officer Williams, though my throat feels lined with sandpaper.

"Tucked in the victim's textbook. Could be nothing—kids trade IDs sometimes to get into dining halls, parties." Williams shifts uncomfortably. "But given the pattern we've been tracking..."

The pattern. Seventeen missing students from Ashford in the past five years. All high achievers. All from working-class families. All officially classified as voluntary departures—mental health leaves, family emergencies, academic burnout.

All bullshit, according to my gut.

I set the evidence bag down with deliberate care and pull out my phone. Sarah's last text was three weeks ago: Still loving Prague! Classes are intense but amazing. Miss you Mom.

Prague. The semester abroad program she'd been so excited about. The opportunity of a lifetime, she'd called it, funded by some prestigious scholarship she'd won at the last minute.

I dial the international number she gave me. It goes straight to voicemail, same generic message in her voice: "Hi, you've reached Sarah. I'm probably in class or exploring Europe. Leave a message!"

I've left dozens. She never calls back.

My fingers scroll through our text history while my mind races. The messages from "Prague" started in September. Short responses. No photos. No details about the city she'd dreamed of visiting since high school art class. Just brief updates about classes and weather, always sent at odd hours.

The realization hits like ice water in my veins. I grab my desk phone and dial the international office at Ashford.

"This is Detective Perry with the Vermont State Police. I need information about a student's study abroad program. Sarah Elizabeth Perry, student ID..." I read the numbers from the evidence bag.

"One moment, please."

The hold music grates against my nerves. I tap my pen against the desk, counting the beats. One minute. Two. Five.

"Detective Perry? I'm afraid there's no record of a Sarah Perry in any of our international programs this semester. Are you certain about the name?"

The pen snaps in my grip. "She's my daughter. She left for Prague in September through your scholarship program."

"I'm sorry, but we don't have any programs in Prague this year. And our records show Sarah Perry withdrew from the university in August. Her final tuition payment was made in cash by a third party."

The phone slips from my suddenly numb fingers, clattering against the desk. Withdrew in August. Cash payment by a third party. The scholarship that came out of nowhere, the excited phone calls about an opportunity she couldn't pass up.

Sarah never left for Prague. She disappeared three months ago, and someone's been sending me text messages pretending to be her.

I stand up so fast my chair rolls backward and slams into the wall. The evidence room. I need to get to the evidence room and pull every file on the missing Ashford students. Now.

The hallway stretches endlessly as I walk, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like angry wasps. Sarah's ID badge bounces in the evidence bag tucked under my arm. My daughter, my brilliant, stubborn, art-loving daughter who wanted to paint the bridges of Prague, is somewhere out there. Or was.

The evidence room smells like dust and old paper. I pull file after file, spreading them across the metal table like tarot cards promising only bad news. Marcus Chen, nineteen, chemistry major. Elena Rodriguez, twenty, comparative literature. James Morrison, twenty-one, engineering.

And now Sarah. Twenty, art history major with a minor in psychology.

All the right age. All the right demographic. All gone.

My phone rings, the sudden sound making me jump. Unknown number, but my heart recognizes the rhythm of hope before my brain can stop it.

"Hello?"

"Mom?" Sarah's voice, tired but unmistakably hers. "Sorry I haven't called. The time difference is crazy, and classes have been—"

"Where are you?" The question comes out sharper than I intended.

A pause. Too long. "Prague, remember? I told you about the Gothic architecture class. We're studying the Charles Bridge tomorrow."

She sounds wrong. Not tired—coached. Like she's reading from a script.

"What's your favorite piece we saw at the National Gallery last Christmas?" I ask, my detective training overriding my maternal desperation.

Another pause. "The... the Van Gogh? Mom, you're breaking up. This connection is terrible."

We never went to the National Gallery. We spent Christmas at my sister's house in Burlington, arguing about Sarah's choice to major in art instead of something "practical." And she's always hated Van Gogh—called his work "aggressively cheerful."

"Sarah, listen to me carefully. Are you safe? Can you tell me where you really are?"

"I'm in Prague, Mom. Everything's fine. I have to go—my professor is calling a mandatory study session. Love you."

The line goes dead.

I stare at the phone screen, replaying every word. The voice was hers, but the words weren't. The pauses in the wrong places. The way she said "Mom" instead of "Ma" like she has since she was twelve. The complete lack of the art history details she usually peppers into every conversation.

Someone has my daughter. Someone who's been coaching her to call me, to reassure me she's alive and well and studying in Prague. Someone who doesn't know she can't stand Van Gogh or that she never calls me "Mom" anymore.

Someone connected to Ashford University and these missing students.

I sweep the files back into their boxes, adrenaline replacing the numb shock. Sarah is alive—that phone call proves it. Alive and somewhere they can make her perform for my benefit. Which means she's valuable to them, whatever "them" means.

My phone buzzes with a text from the unknown number: Thanks for understanding about the bad connection. Prague is everything I dreamed. Don't worry about me. Focus on your cases. Love, S.

The message makes my blood freeze. Focus on your cases. Sarah doesn't know about the missing students investigation. I've never mentioned it to her, never discussed ongoing cases at home.

But someone who's been watching me would know exactly what case might distract me from looking for my daughter.

They have Sarah, and they know I'm getting close to the truth.